Zoot-Suit Murders (18 page)

Younger pushed and knocked his way from the theater, pulling Kathleen along with him, people smashing against her frail body from all sides in their panic to escape. The streets were
filled with screams of running people and the wail of police sirens. Sailors chased Zoots into stores. Two streetcars were barricaded in the center of the street, sailors shouting and pulling people from them, trying to get to Zoots cowering under the backseats. With a terrifying scream and crash of glass, a Zoot jumped from the display window of a drugstore on the corner, three sailors jumping through right behind him. The Zoot saw two Shore Patrolmen watching from the opposite side of the street. He ran to them, shouting for protection. When he got to them the clubs at their sides came up quickly, cracking into his head. He fell stunned and bloody to the ground as the three sailors came up behind him kicking. Kathleen fell to her knees on the sidewalk, a stream of vomit pouring from her mouth. Younger put his arm around her for support, half pulling, half dragging her gasping body through the terror of the street, around the corner onto the next block. He pushed Kathleen against a storefront and stood before her, trying to hide her. He wished he had stayed on the other street. In the chaos of the screaming crowd before them, sailors were hurting and clubbing not only Zoots but anyone who looked Mexican. A struggling pregnant woman slipped from the grasp of a sailor, darting through the crowd as he lunged at her flying coat. She shouted at Younger, her terrified eyes screaming for mercy. She reached toward him just as the sailor caught hold of her coat, whipping her around and knocking her across the face before his knee knifed into her stomach. The woman fell with a gasp, her dead weight crumpling on the hard pavement. Kathleen pulled at Younger’s coat, trying to hold him back, screaming at him it was too dangerous to get involved. Younger shook Kathleen loose, lunging at the young sailor, grabbing him around the neck and choking him. The sailor’s hollow breath came out of his mouth in a hoarse whistle as he turned his darkening face toward Younger. Younger’s hands went limp, losing all their strength, releasing the fury of his grasp. The young sailor looked just like his brother.

“P
lease stay with me tonight.” Kathleen stood in the open doorway of her apartment, her whole body shaking and shivering. She took Younger’s hand and pulled him into the dark hallway. “I’m afraid, Nathan. Please stay with me tonight. I’m so frightened some of those sailors might break into my apartment in the middle of the night.”

Younger flicked on the light switch and pressed Kathleen’s quivering hand firmly between his own. “They won’t come here. They’re all downtown. All that is far away.”

She cocked an ear to the wail of sirens in the distance, her eyes wide with fear. “You must stay.” She led him down the hall. “Promise to stay with me all night or I’ll have nightmares. I’ll never be able to sleep.”

Younger wearily eyed the fat chair in the living room. “All right.” He slumped heavily into the chair. “I’ll spend the night; this is as good a place as any.”

“No.” Kathleen reached her shaking hands down and pulled him back up. “I’m so terrified, I want you to sleep with me.”

“With you?” Younger couldn’t keep the smile of surprise from his face. “Kathleen, are you certain that’s what you want? I mean, I can stay out here. Anyone breaking into the house has to pass right by me to get to you.”

“I know what I want, Nathan.” She dropped his hand. There was a solid tone in her voice he did not question. “Now you don’t stay out here too long because I want you with
me
.” She turned and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving him standing alone.

Younger went into the kitchen and flipped the light on. He sat at the table, rubbing his eyes, trying to erase the screams of the night from his mind, thinking if maybe what he had seen downtown was a dream, a crazy, bizarre dream. He just couldn’t believe it happened. He still felt the sickness in his stomach, as if he was the one who had been kicked and beaten. He just couldn’t believe he would ever witness such a thing in America. It disgusted him. But he knew the reason for it, he understood fully, and he knew it would get worse.

A sharp rapping wove its way through Younger’s thoughts, like an ice pick scraping on an ice block. The strange sound brought him back to where he was, reminded him of how late it was. He looked up from the table, his gaze going around the kitchen, trying to locate the sound. Then he saw it. Outside the window on the fire escape the cat was framed against the distant glare of a street lamp. Reared up on its hind legs, its front paws clawing at the clear glass pane, the animal’s wide liquid eyes peered straight at Younger. He knew what he had to do. There was no way he could put it off any longer. The time had come, and the sickness deep in the pit of his stomach spread quickly through his body as he rose from the table.

*  *  *

“Nathan?” Kathleen called his name, watching the dark shadow of reflection in the high mirror of the bedroom dresser. Her shaking hand clutching a hairbrush swept swiftly through her hair, spreading red curls over sleek satin shoulders of her white robe. “Nathan, is that you?” She peered closely at the reflection moving in the mirror. “You’re so quiet.” She set the brush on the dresser and turned slowly around. “Nathan, I’m so glad you decided to—” The words went numb on her bright red lips. She quickly put out her hand on the dresser to stop herself from collapsing. “Sweet Lord, Nathan, what on earth are you do—”

Younger watched her from the doorway, the purring cat securely tucked under one arm, the needled syringe of adrenalin held firmly between his fingers. “Don’t move.” He pointed the needle at Kathleen. “Sit down in that chair, next to the dresser.” He walked toward her, dropping the cat on the bed’s soft quilt cover. The cat watched him as he placed the needle carefully on the dresser, looking down at Kathleen. “Move and I’ll kill you.” The muscles of her throat constricted with fear, hardening into protruding lines along her slender neck as she turned away from the cat. He stood before her and slipped off his belt. He knelt down, tying her hands quickly to the back of the chair. She didn’t move, her heavy breathing close to his ear. He placed his hands on the sleek shoulders of her satin robe, then shoved the robe back over her thin shoulders, pinning her arms close to her body so she couldn’t suddenly free herself. He picked up the syringe and stepped back from her, sitting down on the bed next to the cat, his hand going over the animal’s arched back in quick familiar strokes.

“Talk.”

“Talk?” Kathleen swallowed hard. “Talk about what?” She looked at the purring cat. “Have you lost your senses?”

“I want to know the real name of the Voice. I want to know where he is.
You
are going to tell me.”

“I don’t know his real name, I swear to you, Nathan. Darling, I swear to you I don’t know where he is.”

Younger ran his fingers through the thick orange fur of the cat. “It’s over, the whole stinking charade is over. You’re a Communist. I know it, the FBI knows it. Now where is he? Where is the leader of your cell?”

Kathleen’s eyes widened in fright as she watched the cat. She tried to push herself farther away from the animal’s strong scent, but the chair was already backed against the wall. Tears came up in her eyes, rolling down her face, splashing on her bare breasts. “Oh, my dear God, Nathan, you are making a terrible mistake.”

“How long is it, before this cat is going to give you an attack? Two minutes? Three? Half a minute?”

“I beg of you.” Kathleen’s slender fingers stretched and scraped frantically at the belt binding her to the chair. “Let me free before it’s too late. I know absolutely nothing.”

“Are you a Communist?”

“No!”

“I know the truth. The FBI knows your whole phony setup from top to bottom.”

“I swear to you! This is absurd!” Kathleen’s nostrils flared, her eyes bulging at the cat, her breasts heaving as her stomach pressed violently in and out as she gasped for breath. “I’m innocent! Oh, Lord, don’t do this to me!”

Younger’s hand fastened on the back of the purring cat’s neck. He wanted to squeeze it, kill it. “Tell me where the Voice is!”

Kathleen’s lips pulled away from her gums as she threw her head back, gulping for air like a drowning person. She suddenly doubled forward, trying to break the hold the belt had on her, her small breasts swinging free of the robe, the nipples hard as brown stones. She flung her head back up, eyes terrified, trying to speak, the air barking from her lungs, the high pitch of her wheezing stabbing into Younger’s ears like the ice pick of the cat scratching on glass. “Nath—I can—n’t! I’m—not!”

Younger jerked the cat up by its neck, squeezing it with all his strength, hating it, hating himself as the cat clawed at his arms. He held the creature menacingly before Kathleen, rubbing its struggling body slowly across her breasts up to her chin, pressing the hairy belly to her nose and mouth as she tried desperately to avoid the smothering fur, shaking her head frantically back and forth, the painful wheezing bellowing from her lungs. She looked at Younger, pleading, the whites of her eyes suddenly turning up into her head as she slumped forward, toppling the chair over. She lay on the floor perfectly still.

Younger hurled the cat disgustedly against the wall. “Tell me! Tell me and I’ll give you the shot!”

Her eyes were closed. She did not move. Her mouth was open but there was no breathing. Younger knelt next to her and pushed back the skin covering her eyes. All he could see was white. “Kathleen!” He slapped her face, his hand striking hard again and again beneath the hollow bones of her cheeks. “Speak to me!” She did not move. He grabbed the syringe and plunged the needle into her arm. “For Christ’s sake, say something!” He pulled the needle from her arm. The quick sight of blood bubbling up from the puncture in her pale skin brought a rush of blurring tears to his eyes. “You must forgive me! I know the truth. You’re not a Communist! You’ve been duped. Forgive me, oh, God, forgive me! I had to do it!” He cradled her in his arms, the tears blinding his eyes. He couldn’t see anymore. “I had to do it! I’m an undercover agent! I work for the government. It’s all been a lie! I’m not even a Catholic! Oh, please talk to me!” He pressed her entire body hard against his own, his loud sobbing filling the room as he rocked her back and forth, screaming, “I’m not even a goddamn Catholic!”

T
he Santa Ana came in unseasonably from the desert, its hot dry wind blowing through the empty streets of the Barrio. Younger quickly walked down the deserted sidewalks, the brim of his hat tipped forward to hide his face. Saturday morning was strangely quiet. No one was out. The wind rushed along the sidewalk before Younger as he hurried toward the church, clattering the short skirts of palm fronds above his head. Younger didn’t glance at the hills of early morning newspapers stacked on the corners. He had already memorized the bold headlines jumping in black ink from the front pages:

Sun struck down bright and clear through the arched bell tower of the old church across from the fading green of Olivera Park, its strong light exposing fresh slashes of red paint on the old adobe walls:

Younger walked quickly up the church steps, pushing through thick doors into fragments of colored light streaking from high stained-glass windows. The sweet scent of incense hung in the air over veiled gray heads of old ladies dressed in black scattered about the pews, their wrinkled lips whispering intimately, expectant eyes dimly gazing heavenward as if expecting to be united with a long-lost lover.

“You’re early.”

“I have much to confess,
padre
.” Younger knelt before the priest lighting a bank of candles before the Virgin of Guadalupe, flames from the candles almost reaching beyond the confines of their red glass chimneys to touch the Virgin’s flowing green robe.

“It’s been a long time since you have confessed, my son.” The priest glanced over the shoulder of his black cassock at Younger, flickering flames erasing the deep lines crisscrossing
his face, giving his skin the same unearthly glow as the smooth plaster face of the Virgin he tended.

“It’s been a long time since I have had anything to confess.” Younger looked anxiously behind the priest, along the aisle leading to the side altar. Next to the small, regally robed statue of a smiling Infant of Prague, the light above the confessional door was off; no one was inside.

The priest knelt next to Younger, his knees cracking, a candle held before him as he gazed upon the Virgin. “You have heard of the wars in our own streets?”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Younger shifted his weight uneasily.

“It is terrible this thing. I was once, as a young novitiate in Oaxaca, a medical volunteer for Villa’s revolutionary army. I have seen this horror before. When soldiers are attacked by citizens in their own towns, it means only one thing: the enemy is within. Some of these children in the Barrio are doing the work of the enemy. The Fascists tell them not to fight for their country, and they do not. These Zoot suits are part of a fifth column and must be stopped.”

“You can’t believe that,
padre
. You know the truth. You know better.”

“I believe that.” The priest lifted his eyes higher to the Virgin’s serene face. “And the Church believes that.”

“That’s not how it is! Damn it, you of all people should know it isn’t true!”

“Do not speak profanely in our Lord’s house.” The priest held a finger to his lips and smiled over his shoulder at the old ladies who stopped their whispering prayers, rosary beads swinging silently in clasped hands as they glared at Younger. The priest turned back to Younger, speaking low under his breath as if he were addressing a demon. “Why do you think I have allowed you these meetings in a house of God? To fight Fascists and Communists. To fight the anti-Christ.” He nodded toward a sudden blinking light above the confessional. “It is time.”

Younger mumbled angrily, piercing his tongue with his teeth, trying to remain silent as he stood to go.

“My son,” the priest called softly, “ask God for His forgiveness. You have many sins to confess.”

Inside the dark confessional Younger closed the door securely behind him and knelt down. The bare shadow of a face was on the other side of the sliding screen. “Listen, Senator, I know damn well what the game is now. There’s no way the government wasn’t behind last night’s attack on the Zoots, on innocent women and children. That attack was as well planned as the Japs’ strike on Pearl Harbor. The police and Shore Patrolmen stood by the whole time and watched, the only ones being arrested were the very people who were being beaten. I know there’s a war on. I know there are some Fascists in the Barrio, but there’s everything in the Barrio. You can’t condemn a single person there; you can’t go on persecuting them, denying them their right to jobs in the war industries just because you think one or two are saboteurs, spies, or part of some mythical fifth column. Most of those people are good Americans, not what the newspapers make them out to be. Most of those people are fighting this war every bit as much as you are.” Younger stopped talking. He realized the anger of his words was almost making him shout. He waited for Kinney to say something, but there was only silence. He continued, trying to control the frustration in his voice. “Something’s got to be done; this madness has to be stopped. It’s not like the problem with the American Japs. There weren’t many of them. You could just truck all the Japs off to prison camps, but you can’t keep a quarter of a million people living in terror in the Barrio, make all of east Los Angeles a concentration camp. You can’t set the Navy, Army, and Marines on good Americans like a pack of rabid dogs. I know it’s confusing with the Zoots, but my job was to learn about them, and what I learned is everybody’s been using them—the Fascists, the Communists, even us. It’s got to stop, because when this war ends those people in the Barrio are going to go on hating us, never understanding the truth. Those people have rights just like every other American, and if we destroy those rights what the hell is the whole goddamn war for anyway?”

A lightbulb flicked on over the shadow behind the screen. The screen rolled back, a black revolver held right at the level of Younger’s eyes, the tip of the barrel almost touching his forehead. “Shut your mouth.” Younger recognized the man with the gun; it was the FBI agent who shot Chiquito Banana. The agent flicked the light back off, the cold metal of the barrel touching the skin of Younger’s forehead. “Keep your mouth shut, get up slowly, walk out of the church. I’ll be right behind. Walk across the street to the bandstand in the park. I want you to do that very carefully, or you’ll be damn sorry you didn’t use your last moments here today to make a real confession.”

Younger walked out into bright sunlight. He did not turn to look behind; he knew the agent was following. He recognized immediately the other agent in the battered brown hat waiting for him next to the wood lattice circle of the bandstand; it was the other agent who had been on the mountain the night Cruz was shot. Beneath the broad brim of his hat the other agent was smiling as Younger approached, but when Younger reached the bandstand the agent’s smile dropped off like a paper mask.

“Where is the Voice, Mr. Younger?”

“I don’t know.”

The agent put his hand to his chest, but it wasn’t his heart he was feeling. It was the bulge of a gun in a shoulder holster beneath his overcoat. “You were requested several days ago to bring in that information. You were informed the matter was urgent.”

“I tried everything I could. Every lead. The girl was a dead-end street.”

“The girl is a Communist, Mr. Younger.”

“You’re crazy. She’s not.” Younger looked over his shoulder. The other agent leaned against the fat trunk of a date palm, fingering a gun beneath his coat. “Look.” Younger turned around. “The girl is innocent. She knows nothing. She’s a physically sick person who has been duped.”

“She is a dangerous Red, Mr. Younger. We know now she killed our two men in the Barrio. The Zoots are innocent.”

“She couldn’t kill anyone, I’m telling you! I almost killed
her
to make her talk. If she was a Communist she would have said so to save her life. She wouldn’t die like that, suffering that way. She’s just a sick, poor, pathetic dupe.”

“She’s a Red. We don’t want to scare her off. We need her information. We need her alive. We want you to bring her in. All of these people involved with the Voice are threatening national security.”

“I won’t do it. She’s innocent, she’s not a killer.” Younger turned to walk away, but the agent in the shade of the date palm blocked his way. Younger knocked him in the chest and shouted, “I don’t care what you do anymore! Go get yourself another boy! Tell Kinney that too. I quit. Finito. I’m going down to the Army recruiting office and upping to fight a real war, not this stinking game you’re playing!”

“Wait a second.” The agent reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a telegram.

“What’s this?” Something made Younger grab the telegram. He unfolded it; it was from the office of the President of the United States.

“Your brother is a dead war hero.”

Younger read the telegram in his shaking hand as the agent continued to talk.

“They say the big carrier took one of those kamikaze hits. Once the ammunition hold started to blow that was all she wrote, a regular inferno. Everyone on board is listed as missing in action, but there’s no way anyone could have survived. Eyewitnesses on other ships in the fleet say when she went down the melting steel hull was hissing like a steam kettle.”

Younger dropped the telegram; he didn’t hear the last of the agent’s words. He looked back past the bandstand in the cool green of the park, a cold sweat breaking out on the hot flush of his face. He felt himself falling and grabbed hold of the agent and bent over.

“Hey, buddy, you’re not going to puke, are you?” The agent held Younger’s coat to keep him from falling. “What the hell,
go ahead and puke if you want to.” He slapped Younger on the back. “You earned it.”

Younger forced himself to stand straight. He watched as the wind flipped up the thin yellow telegram, twisting it into a crazy flight high through the air, out across the browning park grass. He did not go after the telegram. His anguished face stared up at the agent. “The girl is innocent, I’m telling you,
innocent
, But some way or another, I’ll get the Voice for you.”

“Not some way or another, Mr. Younger. Do it.” The agent’s words were flat and simple.

Younger turned back to the telegram. It was way out over the lawn, beneath the feet of small running boys cheering a snaking kite into the powerful wind that blew in from the desert. It was hard for Younger to see the boys through his tears. “I’ll get him.”